


What's an Angel Without Its Wings?

by The_Grasshopper



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angels, Angst, Canon Compliant, Canon Rewrite, Castiel's POV, Gen, Season/Series 09
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:29:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27878405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Grasshopper/pseuds/The_Grasshopper
Summary: The Angels have fallen, and Castiel is human. What does that mean for him?Snapshots from Castiel's time as a human after the fall, from his perspective.
Relationships: No Romantic Relationship(s)
Kudos: 1





	What's an Angel Without Its Wings?

**Author's Note:**

> I can't promise when this will update, but I've had the idea in my head for a while and hope to write more!

Castiel should be angry. He should be filled with righteous fury at Metatron, at himself. Angelic wrath should’ve twisted his Grace into a storm, ready to draw anyone into its frenzy. 

His Grace should be burning and turbulent. His Grace is gone. The hollow space it left is instead full of screams. 

He should be angry, but instead there’s a sweet thickness in the back of his vessel’s throat, and a weakness in his vessel’s stomach. 

It’s hard to tell how long he’s been walking. The Earth feels strange beneath his feet, too much resistance where it should give easily. The wind pushes at him too, moving his clothes and hair, and carrying scents in an arrangement he can’t pick apart: generic smells of earth, damp and leaves. And his people just keep screaming. Another odour - something unpleasant this time, and beneath the screaming a roar. He turns - a car, fast. Wings open - no wings. No wings. He jumps. 

His vessel’s hands push him from the ground; one burning like singed grace, the palm cut and bleeding. Fragile skin torn open by stones, not honed to weapon sharpness or wielded against him. They should have yielded to him. The skin will not grow and heal. 

“It hurts.” This is the pain that humans feel, perhaps. How weak God made these creatures; it’s a wonder they manage to survive at all. He must call Sam and Dean. Tell them the Angels have fallen.

A man, evidently the driver, is first angry and confused, and then kind but still confused by his answers. He offers water and transport, and Castiel takes him up on the latter. Sitting in the confines of the vehicle, the screams recede, quieter than the burning of his hand. The greenery speeds past, separate from himself and his Grace.

The man drives the whole way in silence, before pulling up at a gas station. When Castiel is finally free of the metal box, the man offers him money through the window, for food and calls. The thought of eating unsettles him. He would not be so weak. 

He is weak, however. The man using the phone will not put it down when he asks, and he hasn’t the power to make him: though his intent is there, his Grace is not.

“I’m gonna finish this call,” the man says, muffling the mouthpiece of the phone, “then I’m gonna stab you.”

He contemplates his palm and the damage of a few stones, and turns away. Castiel, Angel of The Lord, is at the mercy of men.

“I know you,” someone says behind him.

“I don’t think so.”

“Castiel.”

He searches her face, seeing nothing but human features. No shadow of her wings, or thrumming of Grace beneath her skin, or true face beneath the mask. And yet-

“We met in heaven,” she says. “My name is Hael.”

She must be an Angel then. He knows the name - knew her - but he could not see her. “You’re an Angel,” he says, the words falling dully as he makes himself an outsider. To be an Angel is to recognise your kin. He did not recognise her. 

“Am I? What’s an Angel without its wings?”

That cloying thickness appears in his throat again. That’s a good question.


End file.
